


Lost & Found

by straightupcreepin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Up all night to get Bucky (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightupcreepin/pseuds/straightupcreepin
Summary: "How it happens in the end is ridiculous.Bucky gets comfortable in his patterns. It makes him careless and stupid. So he runs into Steve in the middle of the damn street."A fic that spans the time before the War and the time after Steve wakes up and discovers Bucky's still alive. They fall apart, but somehow keep finding their way back to each other.





	Lost & Found

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a way for me to process my emotions prior to Endgame and then it sort of spiralled out of control into this, so. It starts in the past, during Steve's and Bucky's childhoods and World War II, then jumps to the future in part 2 with Steve waking up from the ice. I love post-CA:TWS fics with Steve looking for Bucky and what happens after, so I really shouldn't be surprised that this turned into that! Elements of The Avengers and Age of Ultron are used but I twisted the timeline and certain events to my own liking.
> 
> Content warning for period-typical attitudes towards homosexuality in the parts of this fic that take place in the past, for depression and anxiety and PTSD, and for mentions of canon typical Hydra related torture/violence.

** i. **

War breaks out.

Bucky gets drafted.

It's the most frightening moment he's ever experienced up to that point, holding that slip of paper in his hand. And it's made even more frightening by the fact that Steve is bound and determined to join up and follow him.

He makes a deal with God, though, that he'll fight for both of them. Die for both of them, if necessary. So long as it keeps Steve safe.

He should'a known Steve'd be more stubborn than that.

Buck's grateful for that at Azzano. Grateful to see Steve's face again, however much he's let those idiots change it. The core is the same. Same blue eyes. Same fire behind them. Same lips pressing a quick and desperate kiss to Bucky's own, after he helps Bucky off that goddamn table.

"I thought you were dead," Steve says, and his voice cracks around the word.

Bucky doesn't know what to say, and anyway he's half dead and more than a little delirious. So he does what he always does, and lets the first stupid thing that pops into his head fall out of his mouth - "I thought you were smaller."

\--

The next scariest moment of his life comes when Bucky sees Peggy Carter lookin' at Steve like she's a jungle cat staring down a juicy piece of prey. The way Steve's eyes seek her out, and follow her around the room. The slight flush to his cheeks.

It's obvious to anyone in a ten mile radius who cares to look - there's something there. Some kind of electricity crackling between them. When they make eye contact, no one else exists.

He can see what's coming. What has to. And Bucky thinks his heart is breaking.

It's not the first time.

\--

The first time is when they're twelve years old and Steve is real sick. The adults are saying he's not gonna make it, and it sets something off in Bucky. Something angry and desperate and so, so scared.

He stands beside Steve's bed, hands balled into fists and face covered in snot and tears. "You listen here, motherfucker," he tells Steve, voice shaking, "you ain't leavin'. Who's gonna take care of your ma, huh? Cuz it ain't me. I'm not doing it. That's _your job_."

Bucky's lying, of course. He wouldn't leave Mrs. Rogers, he'd take care of her same as if she were his own Ma. But he ain't telling Steve that.

"Who's gonna be my best friend? We're s'posed to grow up together. We're gonna travel the world, remember? You and me. So you gotta fight. You're the strongest person I know, so you gotta act like it. _Fight it._ You have to. Or I swear I'll never speak to you again."

It makes no sense. How's Bucky gonna talk to him anyhow, if Steve goes where he can't follow? But it works. _Something_ works, Bucky doesn't care what it is, because Steve pulls through.

\--

The second time Steve breaks his heart, they're 16 and Bucky catches Gertie Thomas putting her hands on Steve's shoulders and planting a kiss on his lips. Gertie's a sweet girl, and she's nice to Steve. Bucky shouldn't mind it. He should be pleased for his friend.

But he's not.

His stomach drops and turns sour, for reasons he can't explain to himself.

He certainly can't explain it to Steve, when the smaller boy shoves at his shoulders and demands, "what is your _problem_?!"

It's been a few days, and Bucky knows he's been a jerk about it this whole time. It's like he can't help himself, it's eating him up from the inside. All Bucky can think about is Steve kissing that girl. It plays over and over in his head, and Bucky looks at it and just gets madder, without looking directly at the reason why it bothers him.

So he scowls and denies it. "Nothing!"

"Then why are you acting like this?" He's got that stubborn tilt to his jaw, eyes blazing and ready to fight.

"Like _what_?" Bucky rolls his eyes and sneers, like this conversation is beneath him. "If you don't like the way I act, you don't have to be around me! Go run off to your _girlfriend_ , if that's where you'd rather be."

Steve's brows go up and his mouth drops open and he just gapes at Bucky for a second.

"Is _that_ what this is about?" Steve still sounds mad, but there's an undercurrent of disappointment there. Like he expects better out of Bucky. It makes Buck feel like a heel. "You're jealous of me? Buck, you can have _any girl you want_. This is the first time a girl's ever paid attention to _me_ , and your head's so big you can't even stand it? You have to have all of 'em?"

"No!" Bucky protests, and makes a cutting motion with his arm. "That's not - I don't want Gertie."

"Then what the hell is your problem?"

"I want _you_!"

It's out before Bucky can stop it, before he can consciously realize it, and the silence that follows is a shock. It feels like someone dumped a bucket of cold water over top of them.

He knows Steve's staring at him but Bucky can't make eye contact. He can't look at anything but the ground beneath his feet, wishing it would swallow him up, as the words echo around and around in his head and become more real.

He wants Steve. He wants to be the one to look at him the way Gertie does. He wants to be the one to kiss him, wants to be the _only_ one.

"Buck?"

Steve's voice is soft and small and confused, and Bucky can't.... He just can't. Not when the world's been tipped on its axis like this. Not when he's so fucking scared he just ruined everything. Not when he's just realized he's in love with his best friend. It's too big, too serious, and far too much for him to know how to handle right now.

He takes a step back, and then another. "I gotta - I'll - I gotta go," he stammers, before taking off like a coward.

\--

Steve finds him later, on the roof of the tenement building the Barnes live in. It's where Bucky comes to think, away from the noise and nosiness of his little sisters. He sits next to Bucky, close enough that their shoulders touch.

"You ran away." It doesn't sound like an accusation, just a statement. A quiet observation.

Bucky breathes out a slow, shaking breath and nods. "I know," he agrees. Then quieter, almost like it's a question - "You found me."

A hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes. "I'll always find you, Buck."

It's said so simply, and when Bucky looks up Steve meets his eyes steadily. No pity. No hesitation. No revulsion. Just that earnesty that he's got, that makes you believe what he's saying is the god's honest truth.

It makes something in Bucky's chest ache. "I meant it," he finds himself saying, before he can talk himself out of it. "What I said."

"I know."

"I'm sorry I've been such a jerk. And I know this isn't... You didn't ask for this, and if it's too weird, or if... If you don't wanna be around..."

"Hey, Buck?" Steve cuts him off with a hand pressed to Bucky's chest. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

Bucky's heart stutters. "But what about Gertie?"

"She's a nice girl, but... She isn't you. Besides," Steve's fingers curl in the thin cotton fabric of Bucky's shirt, and he looks Bucky up and down with this little smirk on his lips that makes Bucky's face feel flushed and hot, "if _Bucky Barnes_ wants to kiss you, you don't say no to that."

"No?"

"Ain't you heard?" Steve leans in real close, faces almost touching. A hair's breadth and they'd be together. It's agonizing, and intoxicating. "He's the handsomest guy in town - he can get anybody he-"

Bucky's stomach swoops and he cuts Steve off with a kiss. It's rushed and a little awkward, their noses bumping, but he doesn't care. He just wants his hands on Steve, and the next kisses are slower, softer, as they figure it out.

It's the best day of Bucky's life.

\--

This might be one of the worst.

Steve is furious, and hurt, and Bucky feels like the world's biggest asshole. But he's holding his ground.

He's trying to hold his ground.

"I didn't ask for you to do this," Steve tells him, eyes red with tears he hasn't yet shed. Bucky hates that he put them there. "Don't act like this is some sacrifice you're making for me. Don't act like it's a favor."

"Stevie..." Bucky sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I'm not saying it's what either of us want. I'm just trying to protect-"

"Don't." Steve cuts him off forcefully. "I don't need you to protect me. You're protecting yourself. And I hate it. I hate it when you get like this. You're braver than that."

"I'm just trying to be practical. She likes you." Bucky smiles sadly, looking up at Steve. His voice only cracks a little. "And you like her. You should be together."

"But I _love you_."

"I know." Bucky reaches for Steve, trying to hold him. Offer him some comfort before he has to let him go. "I know. I'm sorry."

Steve pushes him away. "No. No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to give up on us just because it got hard."

"You're a public figure now."

"Only until the war's over, and then -"

"And then _what_?" Bucky snaps. "You think they're just gonna let you go back to Brooklyn? No. No, they're gonna wanna hang onto you. You're the goddamn _American dream_ now, Rogers. They're gonna want you to stay public. They're gonna want you to run for senator or something, and they're gonna want you to have a wife, and a family. Not some lousy guy like me hangin' around in the background ready to blow up into a scandal."

There's a silence as this soaks in, then - "What about what I want?"

Steve's voice is so small, Bucky almost breaks.

Almost.

"We're not kids anymore, Steve," he says, just before he leaves. "We don't always get what we want."

\--

They don't talk for a while after that. Not really, anyway. Not more than they have to, to work together.

He can feel Steve's eyes on him as he moves around whatever camp they've made at night, and wishes he wouldn't grieve so obvious. Bucky himself has been more quiet since Azzano, anyway, and keeps his own heartache close to his chest. He doesn't think anybody can tell too much of a difference. He laughs a little too hard and drinks a little too much with the Commandos, flirts shamelessly with girls in whatever towns they pass through, but it's hollow. It's all hollow.

And if he lays awake at night staring up at the sky or the ceiling or the tent canvas above him and feels like he's suffocating, well... That's his own business.

\--

Something changes in the Alps, though.

They're getting closer to Zola. Bucky swears he can feel it, this growing pressure in his chest the closer they get. Bucky can't help but shiver sometimes, not just because it's fucking _freezing_ , but because it feels like someone's walking over his grave. He's restless and twitchy and can't sit still.

It's a bad night. Sleep comes in fits and starts, nightmarish snatches full of bad memories. He abandons the whole idea a few hours before dawn, and takes over watch to give Dernier a little extra rest.

He's trying to keep it together but his hands are shaking and he can't strike a match to light his cigarette as the sky warms and begins to lighten towards dawn. "Fucking... _dammit_ ," he curses under his breath, fighting to maintain his composure, fighting the breakdown looming over him.

He jumps when he hears footsteps behind him.

It's Steve, because of course it is. The one person he can't hide from, who will see straight through all his bullshit. The one person he can't... He _can't_ be weak like this around. Not anymore. Not after...

Steve holds his hands up as he approaches. "Just me," he says gently, reaching for Bucky's hand. He takes the matchbook and strikes one, and it lights on the first try because of course it does. Of fucking course.

Bucky's grateful for it despite himself. Steve's hands brush his as Steve lights the cigarette for him, and their eyes stick on each other. Old habit. Bucky looks away first.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and takes a long drag before sliding his eyes in that direction again. "You're up early."

Steve folds his arms and leans his back against a tree trunk. "Don't need as much sleep as I used to." He shrugs. "I thought Dernier was on watch."

"He was. But I wasn't sleeping anyway, so..."

"Why not?"

Bucky thinks about this for a few minutes, while he smokes the rest of his cigarette. He thinks about feeding Steve a line about Dum-Dum's snoring, something light and trivial. But the camp is quiet and it's just the two of them, and Steve is a steady weight beside him. Bucky can't stop himself from confessing something like the truth.

"Do you ever..." He stubs the cigarette out with his boot, buying himself time to put the words in order. "You ever feel like something's coming? Something... big, and unavoidable. Like a storm. You can feel it in the air, but you don't know when it'll hit."

He doesn't have to look at Steve to see the expression on his face - the pinched brow, the thoughtful concern. Bucky's been seeing it all his life. Every facet of Steve's face is written in his bones.

"It's war, Buck. I think most people feel like that." If this were a year ago, a few months ago, even, Steve's hands would be on his arms, trying to calm him down. He'd be the touchstone in the chaos Bucky needs.

He misses it. Craves it like his lungs crave air. He doesn't know how to settle inside his own skin without it.

"Yeah, maybe." He shrugs his shoulders, and picks a leaf off a shrub, pulling it to pieces just for something to do with his hands. "Just feels like I'm in an hour glass, and it's runnin' out of sand, is all. I don't know what happens when I hit the bottom."

"You won't." Steve sounds sure, full of resolve. "I'll catch you first."

"You can't save everyone, Steve."

"I can damn well _try_."

That's such a Steve answer that Bucky huffs out a soft chuckle.

"God, I miss you." He means for it to come out light, amused, like it's just the end of his laugh.

It doesn't.

"Don't," Steve's breath hitches, and Bucky knows he's hurting him with this. He's hurting them both, gonna break their hearts all over again. " _Please_ don't, not like this. It sounds like you're saying goodbye."

"I'm sorry," Bucky tells him, because that's exactly what he's doing. "I'm sorry for everything."

"Bucky," Steve says his name so soft and tender, and it feels like coming home. His name hasn't sounded like that on Steve's lips in so long.

He moves in front of Steve and steps into his space, cupping Steve's face in his hands. It's risky out here, with just the tree to hide them, but Bucky doesn't care. He can't help himself, not anymore. Not when any moment could be the last time.

When he looks up into Steve's face, he finds blue eyes as anguished as his own. "I only ever want you to be happy," he whispers, as Steve's arms wrap around him.

Steve closes his eyes, and a tear slips down his cheek. "I'm happy with you," he murmurs, and Bucky's sorry for that, too.

But he's not sorry for stealing this moment, even if it can't last. He brushes the tears away with his thumbs and kisses Steve soft and slow, as if they have all the time in the world.

\--

Bucky falls.

There are a lot of worst days and frightening moments after that.

** ii. **

Steve wakes up in a new world he never asked to join, and honestly he's fucking pissed about it.

It's not the technology, not cellphones or the internet or color tvs with a million channels. It's not the food. It's not the way people dress, or talk.

People, he finds out pretty quickly, have a romanticized idea of what life was like for him before they dragged him out of the ice. They see it as a simpler, more pure time. So they imagine him as a simpler, more pure man.

It's a giant load of bullshit.

Steve is not some paragon of virtue. He never has been. Everyone in the old neighborhood knew that. Everyone in the army.

He built his career on disobeying orders, and now they hold him up as a symbol of military righteousness.

Stay in school, like Captain America. Eat your vegetables, like Captain America. Be a perfect soldier, like Captain America. Obey your authority figures without question, like Captain America.

Honestly, Captain America sounds like a real tool.

It's the USO all over again. It's exactly what Bucky said it would be like for him, after the war.

But thinking about Bucky makes his chest ache and burn, makes his breath stop short. It feels like an asthma attack, and he has to remind himself that he doesn't have to worry about those anymore.

His lungs are clear. His body is whole and healthy and perfect, and he's gonna be stuck in it for a long, long time.

\--

Fortunately aliens falling from the sky is a pretty good distraction.

\--

After that he works for SHIELD.

It gives Steve something to do. A purpose. A reason to continue existing.

He throws himself into it, and chases fight after fight. Sometimes he works alone, but usually he's with a partner. Rumlow and his strike team, or Natasha, or Barton. (Rumlow's kind of an ass but he gets the job done. Barton talks too much. Natasha's his favorite.)

It's the time between missions that gets to him. Turns out in this century Steve can only sleep if he comes home with his muscles aching, the bruises and scrapes from whatever beating he'd taken that day still healing on the inside.

He runs and he trains and he spends as much time as possible at the gym, trying to burn out his frustration. The rest of the empty hours are spent playing catch up on all the stuff he's missed, the information that SHIELD deems absolutely vital.

The war ended a little while after he drove a plane into the Arctic, the world spun on, and Peggy...

Peggy built this.

She didn't build it for him, but it feels like a gift anyway. It keeps him afloat.

Steve tells her this when he visits on one of her better days. He thinks she'll like it, but she looks troubled instead.

"You need to rest, Steve." Her hand, so fragile and paper skinned now, grips his with the same firmness as it had seventy years ago. "You need to heal."

Steve snorts, and shakes his head. "I'm fine, Peg."

But he's not, and they both know it.

\--

Fury dies.

SHIELD descends into chaos.

There's a fight on a bridge with a metal armed madman, and the mask is pissing Steve off. It's a weapon as much as the knife in the man's hand, as much as the guns strapped to him, as much as the arm itself. It's meant to scare people into submission, and Steve isn't falling for it.

He rips the mask off the man's face and everything stops.

The noise around him stills. The chaos fades into the background. The world narrows until it's just this. Just him, and the ghost he's revealed.

It makes no sense, what he's seeing. That face... he'd know it anywhere. It can't be anyone else. But it also can't be - "...Bucky?"

The man hesitates, but there's no recognition when he looks at Steve. There's nothing at all.

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

The man raises his gun to fire, and it's only thanks to Natasha's intervention that it doesn't find its mark.

\--

They fight on the helicarrier and it's brutal.

Steve's been in enough brawls on both sides of the serum that he can catalogue his own injuries. Broken ribs. Busted nose. Detached retina. Gunshot wound. High probability of internal bleeding.

This isn't a fight he's gonna walk away from and sleep off in a few hours. It might not be a fight he walks away from at all, but there's too much at stake to give up so he keeps swinging anyway. He can't let this happen. He can't let Bucky do this.

More than that, he can't let _Bucky_ do this.

Because when he snaps out of this (and Steve has to believe he will, _has to_ ), Steve knows Bucky wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Even though he's brainwashed. Even though he's not in control. It's still harm done with Bucky's hands, harm to a lot of people, and Steve won't let that happen to him.

So he fights like hell and he stops it. The helicarriers target each other instead of the hundreds Pierce had programmed them to destroy.

And that's enough, right? That has to be enough.

He frees Bucky from the metal beam that's pinning him to the floor. Lets him fight, if that's what he needs to do. Talks to him. Tries to get through.

It isn't working.

Not until he drops the shield. Not until he tells Bucky to finish it. "Cause I'm with you, till the end of the line."

Bucky's fist, raised to deliver another blow - one Steve doesn't know if he'll wake up from - pauses. His face is twisted in confusion and horror, not quite recognition but _something_.

Then the world breaks apart around them.

Steve plunges into the river, and everything goes dark.

\--

Trust a guy like Fury to lurk around during his own funeral. Steve has to shake his head at it, has to smile a little.

Natasha hands him a manilla folder after the ex-director leaves. "This is everything they had on your ghost," she tells him, as he flips it open. There are two pictures clipped inside - a small, square portrait of Bucky in his uniform, Bucky as Steve knew him, and a larger one of Bucky as whatever they'd turned him into.

His heart aches. "Guess I better brush up on my Russian."

She smiles at him, but her eyes are full of worry. It's funny. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have seen anything but her usual impassivity. But he can read her better now.

"Be careful, Steve," she warns him. "You might not want to pull on that thread."

They both know he's gonna do it anyway.

\--

It goes nowhere.

He and Sam chase down every lead, every whisper, for months. It always winds up in a dead end.

"I'm sorry, Steve," Sam tells him, a hand on Steve's shoulder, after their latest attempt comes up futile.

He just shrugs, and shakes his head. "It is what it is."

"You're being far more chill about this than I would have expected."

Steve puts his hands on his hips and looks around the room one last time. They're in a crappy rundown house that's supposed to have been empty for years, but there's evidence that it's been used as a squat by multiple occupants.

But no evidence that it's been used recently.

Still. "He's been here."

"...Okaaaay. How do you know that?"

Steve can't tell him the real reason. He can't tell him that this place is almost too bare of evidence. That he has that same feeling as when they were kids, that innate awareness of Bucky's movements - the sense that he's been here and just stepped out.

Sam has the patience of a saint, but even that can only go so far.

"I just know. I think..." He chews his lower lip for a second, because he only just realized this and wants to make sure the thought is solid before he speaks it out loud. "I think I'm done looking."

Sam blinks, and looks at Steve like he's crazy. He probably seems that way. Hell, maybe he is. "Just like that?"

"Yeah." It feels right. It feels like it's the right thing to do. "I'm not gonna find him if he doesn't want to be found. I have to trust him, that he'll come to me when he's ready."

"And if he doesn't?"

Steve doesn't have an answer for that. Not really. He takes a deep breath and ignores the anxious twist in his stomach. "Then I guess at least I know he's out there. That'll have to be enough."

\--

It gets easier after that.

Which isn't to say that it's all sunshine and rainbows. There are still bad days, where he can't muster up the motivation to do more than move from his bed to his couch and back again. There are still nights where he wakes up with his heart racing, or in the middle of a shout, caught in the throes of whatever nightmare he's having.

But when Steve has too many of those days in a row, Sam will bang on his door and pester him until he agrees to go for a run, or Nat will show up in his kitchen with pizza and a DVD, or Tony will ask him to test out some new tech.

He has a team now, is the thing. He has friends. A favorite coffee shop on the corner near his apartment. A bodega where he buys milk and eggs, where the salespeople know him and treat him like he's more than just a spectacle. Like he's just some guy who happens to be Captain America, instead of the other way around.

It's tentative, but he thinks... Steve thinks he can have a home again.

He thinks he wants it.

But it's not gonna be at the Tower. And it's not gonna be the fancy ass penthouse Tony hooked him up with, that he's been living in since he came back to New York. It's too modern, and shiny, and sterile. He hasn't been able to bring himself to make it any more personal.

He asks Natasha to help him house hunt.

Steve buys a brownstone in Brooklyn, and it feels almost scandalously lavish to have that much space when it's just him. It's more than he's ever had, more than anyone he'd known back before the war, too.

But it's warm, and bright. It feels like it could be the start of something nice.

\--

Tony and Bruce let loose a murder robot before he can start unpacking, because of course they do.

The witch (Wanda, they find out later, when she and her brother join the fight) shows him things. Peggy in a red dress. The dance they never got to have. A glimpse of a life that could have been his, if he'd been able to go home from the war instead of into the ice.

It does exactly what it's supposed to do - gets in his head and messes things up.

Who has he been kidding? He can't have this. He'll never have this. Peggy is old and dying, she's forgetting him. And Bucky either doesn't remember him or doesn't want to.

After it's all over, he stands outside his new front door and looks up at the house, feeling like an imposter. It doesn't look homey to him right now. It's too big and too empty and too lonely, like him.

But when he goes inside and flicks on the living room lights, several boxes are unpacked and some of his things are put away.

The shield drops to the floor with a clatter and Steve just stands there, taking in every change made in his absence.

"Bucky?" He calls out. Steve doesn't really expect an answer, and he doesn't get one.

But Bucky was here. He was here.

Steve sits down on the couch and buries his face in his hands and sobs in mingled sorrow and relief.

\--

It goes on like this for a while. Steve will leave the house for a few days - sometimes even a few hours - and come back to signs that someone else has been there. A fresh gallon of milk in the fridge. The throw blanket Steve had tossed haphazard in an arm chair now folded neatly on the end of the couch. A bookmark marching slow and steady progress through a novel on his coffee table.

He never sees Bucky. Never hears him. But Bucky wants him to know he's around. If he didn't, Steve would have no idea.

It's enough for a while. Knowing Bucky's there. Knowing he's close. Knowing he remembers, or he's curious, or something. Whatever it is. Steve will take whatever he can get.

But he's never been known for his patience, and after a few weeks it starts to drive him crazy.

Steve needs more. He needs to see Bucky. He needs visual, concrete proof that he's real, and okay. Even if he isn't entirely himself. Even if he never is again. Steve's not entirely the same, either. They've both changed.

He spends an entire week at home. Doesn't leave the house any longer than it takes to check the mail. Anything he needs, he has delivered. He gives strict instructions to Nat and Sam and the others to stay away, delivered with enough intensity that even Tony seems to take him seriously.

But the bookmark doesn't move, and Bucky never shows.

\--

"You're moping."

Steve does not appreciate Sam calling him out on his bullshit like this. Steve feels _personally attacked_.

"I'm not moping," he protests from where he's slumped back into the couch cushions with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You look like you're moping."

"Captain America doesn't mope."

" _He_ might not, but Steve Rogers sure as hell does."

Steve shoots him a glare, but Sam just sits there with a smirk on his face, because he knows he's right. _Smug bastard._ "Fine, I might be moping."

The smirk turns into a grin. "Now was that so hard to admit?" _Yes_ , Steve thinks, but doesn't say out loud. Sam gestures towards him. "All right. Lay it on me. What's got you all grumpy faced?"

The sigh comes from somewhere deep inside Steve's soul, and he scrubs a hand over his face. "It's just... " Ugh. "I just don't get it. Why is he even _here_? What's the point of being so close if he doesn't even want to be _around_ me?"

Steve appreciates the fact that Sam takes the time to actually consider this. There's a minute of silence as Sam tilts his head and looks thoughtful, before saying - "Have you considered it might not be about you?"

Steve's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

Sam leans forward and holds eye contact with Steve, doing that calm, reasonable thing that is as annoying as it is effective. "Okay," he starts, "so. Let's think about this. Bucky's kind of got a lot going on right now, right? He broke his programming, and he's had to figure out ... You know. How to be a person again. That's a lot, Steve. It's a lot."

Steve slumps deeper into the couch, swamped with guilt and misery at the reminder. "I know."

"And then there's you." Sam continues on. "You're obviously important to who he was, and maybe he remembers or maybe he doesn't. But _you_ remember, so you have this automatic expectation of who he is that he might not feel like he can live up to, right now."

"I don't want him to be anything but okay."

"I know that, and you know that. But Bucky has no way of knowing. And maybe he has expectations for himself, too. Maybe he's as hard on himself as you are on _yourself_ when you think you should feel better about something before you do."

Steve doesn't say anything to that, because there's nothing to say, other than that Sam is right.

Sam reaches over and gives Steve's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "He might just be scared, Steve."

Steve nods, and stares at the coffee table in silence for a long time. Then he leans sideways into Sam's space, like the giant, deeply sad puppy he is. "What do I do?" He asks in a miserable voice, as he rests his head on Sam's shoulder.

Sam pats his head and doesn't tell Steve that he weighs a metric fuckton and _please_ get off him, because Sam is a good friend. "You wait." It isn't the answer Steve wants, but it's the right one. "You lay the ground work to let him know that you're a safe space. He's not ready to talk to you, so you gotta start small. Try another way to communicate, something just to show him that you're here and you care. Baby steps."

"Okay," Steve heaves another sigh, and let's the gears start turning in his mind. "Okay. I'll try."

\--

Steve goes back to his usual routine, and tries not to worry too much that Bucky won't come back. Tries to be patient. It's not easy. Steve wants to tear his hair out in frustration a few times. But it pays off, because there's a water glass in the sink one morning that he _knows_ wasn't there when he went to bed.

The bookmark starts to move again in a day or two, and the tension in Steve's shoulders loosens a little.

He takes Sam's advice. Tries a new tactic. He leaves the house for a sparring session with Natasha, but not before writing a note and leaving the pad of paper and a pen on the kitchen island.

**I ordered too much Chinese food last night. Feel free to help yourself to the leftovers, if you're hungry.**

There's no response when he checks the notepad later that afternoon, after training with Natasha and having lunch with Tony and Pepper, but the leftovers are gone. It's not a direct response, but it's something. Something other than a flat out rejection.

Steve smiles down at the takeout containers in his trashcan like a goddamn idiot.

** iii. **

**Do you remember me?**

It's a few weeks after Steve starts writing him notes and a few days after Bucky tentatively starts writing one or two word responses. It makes his hand shake at first, leaving proof. It's easier to be a ghost, something intangible haunting the house. Being real is harder.

But there's no going back now.

He looks down at the notepad and swallows. How does he answer this?

**Yes.**

He frowns, and crosses it out.

**No.**

Not right either. He crosses that out, too.

**It's complicated.**

It's probably not what Steve wants to hear, but Bucky doesn't know what other answer to give. He remembers pieces, fragments, but everything is so jumbled up in his head. It's not always linear. It's not always real.

 **Tell me something you remember,** he jots down, before he leaves.

The next time he swings by, a few days later, there's a note from Steve about a time they snuck into the stadium to watch the Dodgers play and almost got caught. There's a cartoonish drawing of them ripped out of a sketchbook - they're running, hotdogs in their hands, while an irate guard chases behind.

It's a weird feeling, because he remembers it but only dimly. It's like one image superimposed over another. Like he's superimposed over the original Bucky Barnes. There are similarities, there's overlap. But they aren't the same.

He carefully folds the picture up and puts it in his pocket before he leaves.

\--

He's not always at Steve's.

He has his own shit to do.

Said shit mostly involves walking around the city trying to remember stuff.

It's been about a year since the Potomac. The first several weeks he'd felt like he was walking in a fog. His brain was just... Fucked up. From the chair, and the brainwashing. From trying to fight the brainwashing. From trying to remember.

When he pulled Steve out of the river he didn't know him. Not really. He just knew he was important.

Now he knows more.

Friends since childhood. Brothers in arms. More? Sometimes he thinks they were more. Sometimes he thinks he remembers a shape beside him while he slept, or a hand slipping into his own. He remembers Steve small, that he fit just right into Bucky's arms, or on his lap. Remembers them standing close together and springing apart at the sound of footsteps.

But then he also remembers Steve in the Red Room jabbing a cattle prod into his side after one of the girls manages to flip him to the mat, and he remembers Steve with him on a mission from Hydra, standing next to him and ordering him to pull the trigger.

Bucky has it on good goddamn authority that Steve was an ice cube for all that. So how the hell is Bucky supposed to know what's real?

He could ask the source itself, sure. But the idea of being close to Steve makes him want to run in the opposite direction until his legs stop working. It still kind of makes him want to throw up.

Because most vividly he remembers waking up on the helicarrier with Steve pinned beneath him, bloodied and dying. Remembers his fist raised to deliver another blow. Remembers how close he'd been to killing him.

He doesn't know if he's still dangerous. If his programming will trigger, if he gets too close.

So he lurks around the edges. Sneaks in every few days while he's sure Steve is asleep or out, to eat his food and read his notes and keep an eye on things. Make sure there are no bugs, no surveillance equipment.

He can't get close but he can't keep away, either.

\--

So anyway, he walks around and tries to remember. Goes places he thinks they would have gone. Or places he knows _he's_ been, before the war and after. (After usually means it's a place the Winter Soldier eliminated a target. Not exactly pleasant, however educational.)

The buildings he remembers them living in, those are gone. Hadn't been built to last, so they didn't. Most of the businesses are gone or changed, too. The people are all dead, or too old for him to recognize.

New York still has the same heartbeat, though. Might look different on the outside, might sound and even smell a little different, but she's the same underneath and it helps, just being there.

Helps, too, that no one notices him here. He keeps the arm covered just in case, but the city is full of people and none of them have time to look twice at the twitchy crazy guy.

Bucky, when he speaks to anyone, speaks in broken English with a thick Slavic accent, trying to pass himself off as an immigrant from Russia. His pronunciation is flawless - he was _designed_ to be flawless, so it pretty much works. It gives him an excuse not to talk much, an excuse to be guarded.

He makes a few bucks working under the table doing various odd jobs - sweeping floors in a dive bar, stocking shelves for an old lady who runs a tiny bodega. It's hardly anything, really, but it supplements the cash he'd taken from a now defunct Hydra safehouse.

(It became defunct when he burned it to the ground after he'd taken what he needs from it - money, passports, weapons.)

Everything he remembers, he writes down. At this point there are several notebooks full of scribbled, disjointed thoughts, writing crammed into every line and margin. He rereads them at night, as if by memorizing every stray fact and moment he can solidify the past. Can put it in some kind of order.

The results are... Mixed. But it's a start. It's better than nothing.

\--

How it happens in the end is ridiculous.

Bucky gets comfortable in his patterns. It makes him careless and stupid.

So he runs into Steve in the middle of the goddamn street.

He is an elite, untouchable, unparalleled assassin and somehow he doesn't notice that Captain _fucking_ America is in the vicinity until he looks up and Steve is three feet away. Their eyes meet and they both freeze, a moment held in stasis.

Steve recovers first. "Hey," he says softly, gently, like Bucky's a wild animal that might bite him or run if he doesn't approach carefully.

Honestly, Bucky _might_ bite him or run. His fight or flight instincts kick into overdrive, heart racing in his ears. For the past seventy years, the dial has been set to _fight_. For the past eight months it's been set to _flight_. Right now he just feels stuck, torn between those two options and something else. His feet won't move. His lungs won't work.

"Hi." His voice comes out in a croak like a rusty hinge.

They stare at each other some more. Or rather Steve stares at him, and Bucky stares somewhere just to the left of Steve, taking him in in the periphery. Can't look straight at him. He's too bright, too _much_. Sensory overload.

"Are you..." Steve flounders. "You're, um... You're okay?"

 **Winter Soldier self-diagnostic results -** Physical status: functional. Mental status: ???!!? ... Questionable, at best.

He lifts his shoulder in a quick, jerky shrug.

"You're safe?"

He shoots Steve a dry look that says _duh_. That Steve's an idiot and knows the real question is have people been safe from _him_.

It makes Steve smile a little. It also makes him look like he's gonna cry. "Right," he says, scuffing his foot against the sidewalk.

They're blocking foot traffic and people are starting to grumble, breaking the spell around them. They have to move. Bucky's pretty sure his feet should be moving away from Steve, but when Steve steps back towards the building behind them, he finds himself following.

"I'm glad you're here." All of Steve's emotions play out on his face. Longing. Regret. Guilt. Fear. Bucky wonders if he knows he shows that much. Wants to tell him he should be more careful. _Show no weakness._

He also wants to soothe him, ease some of the pain from his face. But Bucky has no idea how to do that, so he stays silent instead.

There's a diner across the street. Steve nods towards it. "Are you hungry?"

Bucky considers this for a long moment, then slowly nods. "I could eat."

\--

They sit in a corner booth where Bucky has his back to the wall and can keep his eyes on all entrances and exits. He appreciates that he doesn't have to tell Steve that's what he needs - Steve just leads him there like he already knows.

The waitress comes over to take their order. Steve asks for a glass of water, a cup of coffee, and a truly astounding amount of breakfast food. Bucky doesn't know what he wants, so when the waitress turns her attention to him he just tells her he'll have the same.

They eat in mostly silence. Bucky can still feel Steve's eyes on him, the weight of that gaze. It feels like an itch in the middle of his shoulder blades. It's a lot, to have that much attention focused on him. Makes him feel exposed.

But it's not... unpleasant.

"Your security is laughably lax," he tells Steve sternly, when he feels a little more comfortable about halfway through his giant plate of food. "You should get better locks. Or an actual security system, so you know when someone tries to pick your shitty locks."

"Who do you think is going to be breaking in?" Steve lifts his eyebrows, then waves a hand. "Other than you, I mean."

"AIM. Hydra. Guns for hire. Petty thieves."

"So either people I can handle, or people who would bust a hole in the wall to get to me anyway."

"You could at least _try_ to be cautious."

Steve snorts. "That's never been my style, you know that." He seems to realize what he's said as soon as it leaves his mouth, and cringes.

There's an awkward pause.

"I'm sor-"

"It's fine." Bucky cuts him off shortly. They continue eating in silence, but after a minute Bucky's shoulders lower a little, and he shoots Steve a tentative look. "I remember enough to know you've always been an idiot."

Steve barks out a laugh that's too loud for something that barely qualifies as a joke, but Bucky feels inordinately pleased anyway. He ducks his head to hide anything that might show on his face.

"You know, people don't usually shit talk me in this century." Steve tells him, before shoveling a bite of egg in his mouth. "I'm a _well respected_ member of society," he adds with his mouth full.

"People in this century are idiots, too." He offers Steve the barest hint of a smirk, and gets a blinding grin in return.

"Yeah," Steve agrees, as something warm settles in Bucky's chest. "Yeah, they are."

\--

Steve insists on paying the check. Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn't fight it. He's a nosy, paranoid motherfucker and he's seen Steve's bank account. Captain America can afford to treat hundreds of ex-assasins to an impromptu brunch if he wants to.

Afterwards they stand just outside the diner, hovering awkwardly near each other.

Bucky's not sure what's supposed to happen next.

Steve doesn't seem so sure, either. He keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, and then snapping it shut. Bucky wants to tell him he looks like a damn fish.

"Just spit it-" He starts, but Steve cuts him off in a rush.

"Come home with me." Steve takes a deep breath after, eyes wide and face somewhere between apprehension and guilt. His hand reaches out and his fingers just barely brush Bucky's jacket sleeve, before jerking back. The guilt and fear redoubles. "I mean you don't have to - you can do whatever you want, obviously. You're not beholden to... I just thought... This went okay, right?"

Bucky hesitates for a long moment before giving a tentative nod.

"I just want to talk. Or not talk, just..." Steve runs his fingers through his hair. "I've been so worried, since ... You know."

"I almost killed you?" May as well put it out there. It's the end of Steve's trailed off sentence, but it's a reminder as well. A warning.

"You didn't, though." Steve's voice is quiet and intense, and this time when his fingers touch Bucky's sleeve, they linger and catch hold. "You pulled me out of the water when I fell. I could be buried in the river under a bunch of metal, but I'm not."

"You dropped your shield."

"I can't fight you."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Steve just looks at him, waiting. Steady. His hand is a welcome weight on Bucky's arm. It goes against his better judgement but this... Steve's not the only one who isn't ready for this to end.

"Fine."

Steve smiles softly, and his hand drops away so he can lead Bucky home.

Bucky misses the contact as soon as it's gone.

\--

It's weird to be in Steve's house when Steve is present. To be in his living room and sitting on his couch with just a cushion's worth of space between them.

It feels more like trespassing than it has any of the times he's broken in.

Bucky hates it. This stilted awkwardness. He's uncomfortable enough just _existing_ , but they were mostly fine in the diner and he doesn't know why they're not now. Because it's a more intimate space? More private? Bucky's _been here_. They shouldn't need a fucking notepad to have a conversation.

He crosses his arms across his chest and turns on the couch to face Steve with a determined scowl. "I don't know how many people I've killed," he blurts out.

Steve blinks, nonplussed. "...Okay."

Maybe that isn't the best conversation starter.

But it's out there now, so what is he gonna do? "They didn't use me much. Two or three times a year, over a sixty year span. First ten years were isolated imprisonment, then training and programming. Not mission ready. Then - estimated kills between 180 and 200."

" _Jesus,_ Buck," Steve looks like he just got punched, like his heart's been broken. Something twists in Bucky's stomach but he can't stop himself now.

"Notable targets include American President John F. Kennedy-"

"Bucky," Steve tries to stop him.

"A European ambassador, name redacted from personal files-" They'd burned it out of his brain.

" _Bucky._ "

"-And an American engineer and his wife, Howard and Maria Stark."

There's a silence. Because maybe that's what this was leading up to. He can't pretend with Steve. He can't pretend that he is who he once was, who Steve wants him to be. He needs Steve to know... He needs Steve to know the truth.

That there's very little of Bucky Barnes left. More of him on better days, but most days... Most of him is still this. Mess and murder and chaos.

"Buck," Steve's voice is soft this time, so soft, and Bucky can't look at him. He can't be this close to him.

"I shouldn't..." He takes a breath that does nothing to calm the angry nest of bees that have taken up space in his chest and in his head, and pushes to his feet. "I shouldn't be here."

"Don't!" Steve jumps up after him, but Bucky's already gone.

\--

When he stops running and looks up, he's not sure where he is.

Still in the city. He'd have to run a lot farther to get away from that. The neighborhood feels familiar, which could mean it's a place he's been before - either as a kid, before the war, or as the Soldier. Or it could just mean his brain is basically a skillet of scrambled eggs. Who knows?

What he _does_ know is that it's far enough from Steve's place to give him some breathing room. He picks a building and scales the fire escape. It feels safer above. People on the ground don't bother to look up, and the city's big enough that it'd be hard for someone above to identify one random asshole on one random building.

The building has an access leading out to the roof, and Bucky leans his back against the side of it, in the shadow it casts. He holds himself very still and counts his breaths until the panic slowly bleeds out of him, and leaves something tired and frustrated and hollow behind.

Well, he knew from the beginning their first encounter was going to be a disaster. Now he has the proof.

And Steve knows the truth now. About who he is, who he's become. Someone who kills his friends without even blinking. Someone with a body count triple the number of years he's lived.

He doesn't know how much Steve knew about the Soldier, before. He's combed through the files Romanoff released, but his weren't among them. Whether that's on purpose or they were just buried too deep, he doesn't know. But he's willing to bet his handlers were careful with it.

They didn't want the world to know he's real. They wanted him to be mist and shadow, rumor without proof, a chill running up your spine. A monster.

It made his targets' (victims, his _victims_ ) response, when they first caught sight of him, that much more visceral.

If he was to be seen at all, Hydra wanted them to know exactly who was punishing them and why, before they were eliminated.

Bucky leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

He might be wallowing.

He feels it's earned.

This isn't what he chose. It isn't what he wants. He _wants_ to be that shining boy Steve remembers. He wants to be someone Steve can be around. Because he _wants_ to be around Steve. He can't deny that anymore.

But when has wanting something ever worked out for him anyway?

\--

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there when he hears the sounds of someone scaling the building. More than an hour. Less than a day.

Bucky looks up, and his eyes meet Steve's.

"What," he frowns, "are you doing here?"

Steve smiles tiredly and sits next to him, leaving a careful bit of space between them. "Lookin' for some asshole who ran out on me in the middle of a conversation."

"Not much of a conversation," he points out. "A confession, maybe."

"Maybe." Steve shrugs, and they sit in silence for a few minutes. Bucky sure as hell isn't gonna break it.

Steve, of course, can't keep his earnest fucking mouth shut.

"Bucky, I know who you are."

Bucky shakes his head. "No, you don't. You think you do, but you don't."

"I do. I knew to come here, didn't I?"

"How _did_ you know that?" Bucky turns his head to frown at him.

"It's the old neighborhood." Steve points out, and now that Bucky's brain isn't fogged with panic and fucked up memories of death and destruction, he recognizes it. "And you always went up high, when you were upset."

It's uncomfortable, having someone know things like this about Bucky that he doesn't know himself. "Easier to hide from people."

"Are you hiding from me?" Steve looks at Bucky, and it's not accusatory. Just... Like he's waiting for Bucky to sort something out.

It makes Bucky want to squirm. "Not very well," he deflects. "You found me, didn't you?"

This makes Steve's face crumple for some reason, and he has to pause a second before he manages- "I'll always find you, Buck."

It hits something in the back of Bucky's mind. A distant itch. The ringing of a bell. "You've said that to me before," he says, slowly. "Haven't you?"

"Yes."

"When?" He presses.

"It, um..." Steve hesitates, and eventually makes a helpless gesture. "It's not important."

It's clear he's hiding something, that he doesn't know or can't bring himself to say the words.

So Bucky says it for him.

"I know we were together."

There's a silence as Steve stares at him, his face somewhere between shock and grief.

"You remember?" His voice is small and quiet, like he's afraid to hope for even that much.

It's smart to be afraid. "Some." It's not a great answer, but it's the only one Bucky is able to give. "Not everything."

"I didn't..." Steve stammers, and draws in a shaky breath. "I wasn't hiding it from you, I just didn't want you to think that ... That I expected it to be like that, again. That you'd still want it."

"Good. Because I don't." Better to put it out there. Even if it hurts Steve. Even if the truth is that he has no idea how he feels. He wants Steve close, he wants to be near him, but, "I'm not ready for... I don't know if I'll ever be ready for anything like that, again."

"That's okay," Steve tells him, even though it puts tears in his eyes and his voice is strained with heartache. His doubt must show on his face because Steve hastens to insist, "No, Bucky, I mean it. I know things are different. _I'm_ different, it's not just you. But I still... You're still important to me, and that's not gonna change. Ever. I just... I just want to be part of your life. I just want to be around."

Bucky looks at him and weighs this for a minute. "I'm still a monster, Steve." It's not a no, just a warning.

"You're not." Steve turns towards Bucky and grips his shoulder. "What you did... Bucky, they _made you_."

"I know." Bucky lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "But it was still my finger on the trigger. I still did it. I _wanted_ to do it." They'd made him want that, too, but it's still hard to reconcile.

"Not now though." Steve says, a reminder more than a question. "Not now, right?"

"Not now," he agrees. Bucky's seen more than enough bloodshed for one lifetime. Even one as long as his. "But that doesn't mean I'm not still dangerous."

" _I'm_ dangerous." Steve points out. "And I'm friends with a lot of other dangerous people. We can figure it out."

Bucky looks at him for a moment. Considering. "Together?"

"Yeah," Steve smiles. "Together. You and me."

** iv. **

For some reason it does not magically get easier.

Which Steve _knows_ , of course, isn't going to happen, but that doesn't stop him from being frustrated with it.

Bucky starts staying over a few nights a week. Steve still doesn't see him much at first - they still communicate mostly through notes on the counter and treats left in the fridge. But Steve can hear the back door slip shut some nights, and it feels like Bucky's saying goodnight.

That's good.

Occasionally Steve will come home and Bucky will be curled up with a book on the couch or in an arm chair or, once, in a puddle of sunshine on the rug like he's some overgrown cat. (That had made Steve's heart feel so full, and warm. He can safely pin point it as the moment he falls in love with Bucky Barnes in this century.) They'll order take out and talk quietly while they eat, until Bucky slips out into the shadows again.

That's better.

Those are the good days.

The bad days are pretty bad.

Bucky doesn't remember him. Or he doesn't remember English. He's moody and twitchy and puts a hole in Steve's living room wall, one time, with a metal fist. (Could have been worse, though, as Steve points out when Bucky comes back down from wherever his mind had taken him. It was almost Steve's head.)

His moods are mercurial, set to swing on a moment's notice. He could be laughing and ribbing Steve just like it's the old times, then before Steve has time to see it coming Bucky's face will wipe clean, like everything has suddenly been emptied out of him. Or he'll snap, get suddenly angry, and start shouting. Or he'll just get distressed, anxious, and look so utterly lost...

It reminds Steve of Peggy, the way that she is now, and it hurts. It hurts because he doesn't know how to fix it, not for either of them. They're the two great loves of his life and neither of them can reliably remember his name for twenty-four hours straight.

But Steve Rogers has never given up on anything just because it's hard. And whether he knows this about himself or not, neither has Bucky Barnes.

\--

And it's worth it. Things _do_ get better. Slowly, at a _glacial_ pace, but progress is progress. It's been a couple months when Steve feels like maybe he can push his luck.

"You know, I have five bedrooms here."

They're eating dinner while an 80s action movie plays in the background. Bucky seems to be enjoying the extreme cheese, but he'd always liked pulp novels so Steve's not really surprised. It's good to see him laugh.

Now he gives Steve a look. "I'm aware of the layout of your house, Steve."

"Right." Steve's blushing. His leg jiggles a little. And he knows he's an easy read, so before Bucky can ask him what has him all nervous he presses on. "Just, you know. Five bedrooms. I only use one."

Bucky reaches for the remote and pauses the movie, before turning on the couch so he's sitting sideways facing Steve. "What do you think you're doing?"

So, he's gonna be difficult about this. Steve wishes he was surprised. Good thing Steve knows how to be stubborn, too.

"Asking you to move in with me."

"No." It's immediate and firm. Steve rolls his eyes.

"Why not?" He demands.

Bucky snorts. "God, where to start?"

"How about with _yes, Steve, I will move in with you_?"

"You know that can't happen, doll." Bucky shakes his head, and doesn't seem to realize the endearment has slipped out. Steve's heart stutters painfully - the last time he heard that word on Bucky Barnes' lips, they were in the Alps, huddled together against the cold and against the dark events hovering in their near future.

He takes a beat to catch his breath, then tilts his chin up. "You stay here half the time anyway," he points out. "You're eating my food, reading my books, watching my tv. Sometimes you even do the dishes."

"That's because you're a damn slob, Rogers, Jesus Christ," Buck gripes, and it sounds just like the old days. " _Someone_ has to do the cleaning around here. Ain't you rich as God now? Can't you afford to hire somebody?"

"That's blasphemy, Buck," Steve warns on reflex, muscle memory from decades ago and his childhood as a devout Catholic. "Besides, who could I trust? I'd rather just get a roommate."

"So put an ad on Craigslist."

"So I can get murdered?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Pal," Bucky puts a hand on Steve's shoulder and gives him a dry look, "you're way more likely to get murdered with _me_ here than some rando."

"No I'm not."

"How do you know?"

"I just ..." Steve reaches up, covers Bucky's hand with his own. Meets his eyes and shrugs. "I just know. I know you. You won't hurt me."

Bucky doesn't break contact right away, which is progress in and of itself. "That hole in your wall says otherwise." He nods towards it.

"I stopped you, didn't I?" Steve insists. "I'm one of the only people who's capable of that, when you're... having a bad day." Bucky's face says that's a gross understatement. Steve ignores it. "You don't want to be dangerous, and I would never let you be. And you're worried about my lax security measures, right? But you'd never let any threat even get in the door. So this is... This would work for both of us."

Bucky's quiet for a minute and Steve can tell he's actually considering it, so he bites his tongue against any further pleading. Just waits, until finally Bucky meets his eyes, brow furrowed and gaze focused.

"You really want this?"

Steve's answer is immediate and certain. "Yeah, Buck. I do."

Bucky nods, thumb brushing over Steve's shoulder a few times before he slides his hand away. "Fine," he acquiesces. "I'll bring my stuff tomorrow."

\--

Bucky takes a bedroom on the second floor, at the back of the house. It's smaller than the others, but it's not like Bucky has a lot of stuff and if that's what he wants, Steve isn't going to push him any farther than he already has.

Bucky hangs up blackout curtains over the privacy blinds and leaves the bedframe in the middle of the room, but drags the mattress off to the floor against the wall. He gives Steve a mulish look as he does this, like he's daring him to say something.

Steve puts his hands up. "I don't even have a bedframe," he admits. "Just a box spring on the floor." _Like a broke college student,_ Natasha had clucked her tongue and shaken her head at him, when he'd moved in.

He's had some vague plan of _buying_ a frame, at some point in the future. But this confession makes Bucky relax a little, so maybe he won't.

"You can paint if you want," he offers, motioning towards the walls that are currently the same bland eggshell color as almost every other bedroom in North America. "It came like this. I haven't really tackled changing anything yet."

"Yeah, you're not big on home decor, are you?"

Steve shrugs and rubs the back of his neck. "It's not that, I just... I'm not used to someplace feeling like home. It's been kind of a crazy few years."

Bucky's face softens a little. "Seems like you're home now," he points out. "So maybe you can start."

"Yeah." Steve ducks his head and smiles. "Yeah, maybe."

After that new knick knacks start to appear in different places in the house. Art prints. Figurines. Throw pillows. A photo of his Ma that Bucky finds _somewhere_ , clipped out of a book and placed in a small frame on the mantle.

He tears up when he finds that, and as soon as Bucky walks in the room Steve pulls him into a hug and tucks his face into Bucky's shoulder. And Bucky... Bucky lets him.

\--

Steve comes downstairs one morning, lured by the scent of fresh brewed coffee, and frowns at the sound of soft voices in the kitchen. One of them is definitely Bucky. The other...

He pauses in the doorway at the sight of a petite redhead perched on the island, a mug of coffee in her hands.

"Good morning, Steven," Natasha smirks.

Steve makes a sound somewhere between manly grunting and confused kitten chirping that _may_ be more towards the kitten end of the spectrum, and rubs a hand over his face. It is too early to parse this. It is too early for Black Widows to be perching on counters in his home, talking to his... Bucky, and giving Steve her trademark I Know Everything About You Including Things You Don't Know Yourself look while she drinks _his_ coffee out of _his_ favorite mug.

Natasha, of course, just smirks harder. "You didn't tell me you had a house guest."

"That was on purpose," he rasps. Steve goes to the cupboard and gets down a mug which he sets in front of Bucky, who is inconveniently standing in front of the coffee pot like a jerk. "Coffee."

Bucky snorts, soft and amused, but he fills Steve's mug up so Steve guesses he can be forgiven.

The caffeine really doesn't do anything for Steve, but the ritual of it helps him ease into the morning. And thankfully Natasha is gracious enough to allow him a few minutes to pull himself together.

"I didn't tell anyone," he says finally, which isn't strictly true. He told Sam. But in his defense, he had been freaking out and overwhelmed at the time. "Do you usually tell people when you have an international fugitive living in your house?"

"Only if they're the right people." She hops off the counter and bumps her hip against Steve's, looking up at him. "We need to tell you something."

"We?" Steve echoes and shoots a bewildered look first at her and then Bucky.

Bucky drums his fingers on the countertop. "I knew her. In the Red Room."

"He trained me," Natasha smiles reassuringly up at him in that way that means she thinks she's being kind and trying to protect Steve from something.

Bucky is mercifully more forthcoming. "We were lovers."

It knocks Steve off balance, like the ground's been pulled out from beneath him. "Oh," he manages to get out eventually. "Okay."

Nat tucks herself into Steve's side and pats his back consolingly. Bucky rolls his eyes. "Wipe that look off your face, sweetheart, 'were' is past tense. We aren't together now. It was a long time ago."

"That's not..." But it is. It's playing a part in the tangle of emotions he just got hit with. He can't lie about it, they'd both know the truth anyway. "What happened?"

"They caught us, and we were punished," Natasha says simply.

"They made me forget."

"They told me he was dead. I believed it, until Odessa. He didn't recognize me. That's why I didn't tell you, Steve. I'd been down that road before, and I only saw it leading to you getting yourself hurt." She looks up at him and hitches her shoulder in a little shrug before stepping back again. "I'm glad I was wrong for once."

It's a lot. It's a lot to process, and Steve doesn't know how to handle it, except - "I'm sorry," he tells them earnestly. "I'm sorry that happened to both of you."

Bucky doesn't say anything, but Natasha nods her head in acknowledgement. "It is what it is." She stands up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Steve's cheek. "I'm putting movie nights back on the calendar - you boys can't live like shut ins. I'll see you Friday night." She waggles her fingers at them and slips back out of the house.

There's silence for a few minutes, as neither he nor Bucky can quite look at each other.

Steve taps his fingers on his empty mug, then takes it to the sink and rinses it out. He dries his hands and turns to go. "I'm gonna-"

A metal hand circles his wrist, holding him in place. "I wasn't hiding it from you."

Steve looks up and tries to catch his gaze, but Bucky is looking at the floor. "I didn't think you were," Steve says.

"I didn't remember. Not until I saw her."

"It's okay, Bucky. I'm not mad." He puts his hands on the edge of the counter and looks down at the sink. "I love you. Both of you. I'm glad you had each other, and I'm sorry that it's one more thing they took away from you. And I'm just..." Steve's voice cracks. He swallows and backs away, towards the door. "I'm just gonna go for my run, okay?"

\--

So now Steve is the one hiding.

He would laugh, but he feels too much like a miserable pile of shit. So instead he is laying on the floor in the middle of Sam's living room and staring up at the ceiling.

"Dude." Sam nudges him with his foot. "Planning on getting up anytime soon?"

"Nope." Steve pops the _p_ sound and wiggles a little, to get more comfortable. "In fact, I may never get up again. I am one with the floor. _Are we not all things?_ I read that in a book once. Or maybe it was something Strange said, I don't know. It's how you meld into objects, or something. I'm melding into the carpet fibers."

"Uh-huh."

"I deserve to be stepped on."

"I do _not_ need to know your kinks."

That gets a reaction out of Steve. He stretches an arm out and swats at Sam's ankle. "Ass." He leans up on his elbows and sighs the deep and morose sigh of a one hundred year old defrosted popsicle with emotional problems. "What do I do?"

"About what? Sweating all over my rug?"

"About Bucky." He flops back down again. "And Nat. And me being a shit person and a shit friend."

Sam looks down at him thoughtfully for a second, before shoving the coffee table out of the way and stretching out next to him. "You're not a shit person. You're a dramatic bitch," he turns his head and shoots Steve a look, "and you're sweaty and you reek a bit right now, but you're not an actual turd. What's really bugging you? It's not them being together."

"No. No, it's not that. I don't own Bucky, and I don't want to." That isn't how love works. Besides, it'd be pretty hypocritical of him to be an ass about it, given...well... Peggy. "And I really am glad they had each other in that place, that they had something _good_ , even if it was just a little while."

"But...?"

"But what if he wants to be with her now?" Steve's face pinches and he closes his eyes. "I know... I know how that sounds. I know it's selfish. And I'm not saying ... I told him I was fine if he never felt that way about me again, and I meant it. I _mean_ it. But I just got him back and I'm afraid to lose him."

"Steve," Sam begins patiently, but Steve cuts him off.

"That's not all." He wets his lips. "I keep thinking... I keep thinking about what he went through. About what they _both_ went through. How bad it was for them. Meanwhile, I basically took a nap for seventy years. What right do I have to feel so..." He searches for the word.

"Depressed?" Sam suggests.

"Yeah." Steve takes a breath. "Yeah. I didn't... Stuff happened to me, sure. But not stuff like that. I haven't _suffered_ like that. So why do I feel like this?"

Sam rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, and looks at Steve until he makes actual eye contact. "Steve, you died." He says it point blank, no frills. Steve flinches, but Sam presses on. "You lost your mom, you lost your partner, and you _died_. _Then_ you woke up in a strange place where everything was different, and everyone you knew was either dead or suddenly aged seventy years. That's some real shit."

"I know, but-"

"But nothing." Sam gives him a stern look. "What you went through was traumatic as hell, Steve. Does your trauma mean mine didn't happen? Does it mean I should be okay?"

"Of _course_ not."

"Of course not," he repeats with a nod. "Your shit does not erase my shit. Their shit does not erase yours. It's all shit, Steve. It all stinks. But even if you didn't have the most dramatic tragic backstory outside of a telenovela... It wouldn't matter. What you feel would still be valid. Depression doesn't care who you are or what you've been through or if you have a _reason_. Sometimes it just is. So try to cut yourself some slack, okay?"

"Okay." Steve breathes slowly, in and out. "Okay."

"Good. Now do me a favor and _please_ use my shower," Sam teases. "I know you'll like, die if you don't run at least ten miles every morning but dude, you are disgusting. I'll grab some sweats and a t-shirt for you." He rolls to his feet and holds a hand out for Steve, to help him up.

Steve allows himself to be helped. "Thanks Sam," he says earnestly, before he releases his grip. "For everything. You're a good friend."

Sam rolls his eyes but he can't hide his smile. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm a fucking treasure. Now get outta nose range already, will ya?" He shoves Steve towards the bathroom.

\--

** v. **

Sarah Rogers catches them together, the night Bucky turns nineteen.

It's pretty damning, not something they can pass off as anything else.

Their shirts are open. Steve's got him pressed back against the kitchen counter, and he kisses like he fights - ain't ever pulled a punch in his life. It's a lot, to have all that fire directed his way. Makes Bucky dizzy. Makes him stupid. He clutches hard at Steve's hips and tries to give as good as he gets, and they're so drunk on each other they don't hear the key in the lock until it's too late.

They freeze, and Bucky's eyes meet Mrs. Rogers' over Steve's head. He can't parse the expression there. She's surprised, certainly, and grave, but guarded.

There's a weighted silence. Bucky can't move. Steve's chest is heaving and he's staring up at Bucky with gut reaction fear.

"Boys," Sarah Rogers begins carefully, but Bucky cuts her off.

"It's my fault," he blurts out, disentangling himself and moving to stand in front of Steve, put himself between them. "It wasn't his idea, it was mine, I-"

"No it wasn't." Steve steps out from behind him, and flicks his eyes to him. "Well, not just." He squares his shoulders, and reaches for Bucky's hand. "Mom. Bucky and I are together." He's got his chin tipped up and his jaw tight in that way that means he's ready for a fight, whatever it might cost him. Bucky loves him. He also thinks he's an idiot. "I know a lot of people say it's wrong, but it doesn't feel wrong to me. And if you can't accept that, then..." There's an almost imperceptible shake in his voice. "Then I can leave."

" _Stevie_ ," Bucky whispers softly, miserably, because what is he doing? Why is he trying to give this up for a shmuck like Bucky?

Sarah Rogers' sharp eyes land on Bucky, and she looks at him in that way mother's have where they can _see_ if you're lying or not. Like the truth's held in some invisible aura only they can read.

"Do you love him?" She demands, voice hard.

Steve interjects. "He does."

"I'm not asking you, I'm asking him."

Bucky looks at Steve and swallows, before nodding. "Yes, ma'am." He thinks he keeps his voice relatively steady, given that his insides are currently made of gelatin.

"And you know this won't be easy?"

"I know." Bucky tells her, before Steve can scoff and wax eloquent about standing up for love and justice. "I think about it every day."

"Good." She sits down hard, at the kitchen table, and looks very tired. "At least one of you does. You need to protect each other."

Steve's shoulders slump in relief and he sits across from his mother. "We will," he promises, buttoning his shirt back up.

And Bucky is... Bewildered, honestly, because there's no way it's that simple. How can it be that simple?

"Ma'am?" He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the shakiness in his voice. "You're not... You aren't... Mad?"

Sarah's face softens. "No, Bucky," she tells him gently, motioning for him to sit next to Steve. When he does, she reaches a hand across the table to each of them, waiting until they slip their hands into hers. "I'm worried, for the both of you. But I'm not mad." She gives their hands a squeeze and Bucky feels a lump rise in his throat.

He doesn't know how his own folks will react if this ever comes out, but he loves Steve's ma like she's his own family. It's nice to know they'll still have her, whatever happens.

"You can't help who you love," Sarah Rogers tells them, "and you shouldn't have to."

\--

Bucky copies the memory down carefully with as much detail as he can remember, in a newer notebook that's turned out to be mostly memories of Steve. Of the two of them, together.

He'd thought he could shut that part of himself off, that it'd be simpler. Easier for the both of them. He'd thought that part was non-existent, honestly, burned out with his memories.

But then Steve came home wearing different clothes and smelling like someone else's shampoo after his hours long 'run' last week, and now the thoughts are annoyingly persistent.

He should not be jealous. He has no right to be jealous. He told Steve up front that he didn't want to go back to the way things were before and now here he is: wishing things could be the way they were before.

Or maybe not wishing that exactly. But wishing something like it could be an option.

It's a dick move, thinking Steve should wait for him to be ready. Especially since Bucky is still trying to parse out how he feels and what he wants, and the idea of Steve waiting for him feels like a suffocating weight of pressure.

But the idea of Steve with someone else is... It's going to drive him even more crazy than he already is.

He used to be really good at compartmentalizing. A side effect of being capable of feeling emotions again is that he's not so great at ignoring them anymore.

They're sitting on the couch, Bucky tucked into one corner and Steve into the other. Bucky has a book open in front of him but his eyes keep straying from the page. He's distracted. Steve's got that familiar furrow in his brow as he concentrates on whatever he's sketching. Bucky's fingers itch to reach over and smooth it out, to pull his focus away, to make him smile.

This used to be so easy. He doesn't know what to do with it now.

"I want to meet Wilson."

Steve looks as surprised as Bucky is to hear those words leaving his mouth. "You do?"

No. Bucky's pretty fucking sure this is a terrible idea and, outside of satisfying a morbid sense of curiosity, will end in absolute disaster. But he already put it out there, he can't backtrack now.

He shrugs. "Sure. I'm gonna have to start meeting your friends someday," he points out. "I can't hide forever and it'd be nice to have them on our side when, I don't know, the US Government decides to try to throw my ass in some super prison."

"I'm not going to let that happen." Steve's jaw tightens in patriotic determination.

Bucky rolls his eyes and digs his toes into Steve's thigh, to annoy him into loosening up. "I know, pal." He tells him, after Steve swats his leg. "I'm just saying - it'll be easier. Besides, he's... important to you. So. I gotta meet him. You know, without all the Hydra shit scrambling my brains."

"He might still hold a grudge about you ripping out his steering wheel and kicking him off a roof," Steve warns him, a teasing smirk on his lips.

"That's just cause he's only seen my bad side." Bucky scoffs. "I have it under good authority that my good side is quite the charmer." He runs his fingers through his hair and tips his chin up in a facsimile of his old easy confidence.

He's probably imagining the pink tint to Steve's cheeks as he shakes his head and smiles. "It's something, all right. I'll invite Sam over for dinner this weekend. But you're cooking."

"Of course," Bucky picks up his book again. "We want it to be edible."

\--

Bucky makes stir fry.

It's a newer recipe for him, but he's made it a couple of times and likes to think he does a reasonably okay job with it. Steve has certainly been enthusiastic the few times they've had it, so. It won't taste _bad_ , anyway.

The knock on the door comes as Bucky turns down the heat on the stove, to keep everything warm without burning it all to a crisp. "Steve?" He calls up the stairs.

"I'm still getting dressed!" Steve answers, two floors above. It'd be too quiet for anybody else to hear, but those enhanced senses come in handy for across the house communication, they've found. "Can you get it?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and tamps down on a flash of annoyance that Steve seems to be taking extra time and care getting ready for the evening. He wipes his hands off on a paper towel to make sure they don't have any cooking greasiness on them, and tries (with minimal success) to make his shoulders loosen up as he opens the door.

"Hi." His voice comes out more gruff than he means it to. He tries to make up for it with a strained smile. "Steve's still upstairs, he'll be down in a minute."

"Hey, man." Sam smiles, like it's easy. Like Bucky has never tried to shoot and/or maim him. "That's cool, I don't mind waiting. I'm Sam." He sticks out his hand, which Bucky tentatively shakes.

Sam Wilson is handsome. Sam Wilson has brought them a bottle of wine. Sam Wilson, Bucky is distressed to note as he steps back to let Sam pass him on the way inside, smells _really good_. He also presumably has his shit together.

Bucky is screwed. He could maybe compete with good looking, but there's no way he can compete with _with it_. With it, nice, and funny. Shit, _Bucky _has a bit of a crush on the guy by the end of the evening.__

__He's quiet through most of dinner, ruminating on it._ _

__It's a good thing, Bucky thinks. It's better for everyone. Steve deserves something nice, and Sam is... He seems like he could fit the bill. He seems like he could make Steve happy._ _

__Which leaves Bucky... Where?_ _

__He doesn't know. Lost a little. Sad. Mourning something he wasn't sure he wanted and now is pretty sure he can't get back._ _

__But this kind of hurt is entirely human - the fact that Bucky feels it at all is progress. It's okay. It'll be okay. It's just gonna take some time._ _

__Steve volunteers enthusiastically to clean up after dinner, and shoos Sam and Bucky to the living room._ _

__They share a look._ _

__"He's not as subtle as he thinks he is," Sam says._ _

__Bucky agrees. "He never has been."_ _

__Bucky turns on the radio and they make awkward small talk for a little bit. He appreciates that Sam doesn't push him to talk more than he wants to. He doesn't ask about Bucky's arm or Hydra or the 'good old days'._ _

__They could be friends, he thinks. They both like baseball and science fiction. And Steve._ _

__Bucky thinks this would be easier if he could hate the guy._ _

__"Steve's a good person." Bucky tells him, when he can hear the water running in the kitchen and can be reasonably certain Steve's not gonna overhear or listen in. He's _humming_ as he washes dishes. It's terrible and off key and obnoxiously endearing._ _

__"He is," Sam nods his agreement._ _

__"The best person I've ever known." Bucky presses on._ _

__"Me, too."_ _

__"You seem like a good guy, so... Be good to him," he finishes awkwardly. "Because if you're not, I will drop kick you off a much taller building and I'll make sure you don't have any wings to help you out."_ _

__Silence, for a beat. Bucky hopes this means Sam is taking this seriously, but when he looks over Sam Wilson appears to be struggling not to smile._ _

__"I'm sorry," he says when he catches Bucky's death glare. Sam holds a hand up in a gesture of peace. "Sorry, you are a genuinely frightening dude and I feel suitably awed, I promise. Just... Is this the shovel talk? Am I getting the shovel talk from James Barnes?"_ _

__"It's Bucky." Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch. "And something like that, yeah."_ _

__"Jesus Christ, there's two of you," Sam murmurs mostly to himself, rolling his eyes heavenward in an apparent prayer for patience. "Okay," he leans forward, looking at Bucky with a combination of amusement and compassion. "While I am extremely flattered to know you think I'm anywhere close to good enough for Steve... That's not what's happening here. We're just friends."_ _

__Bucky takes a moment while that sinks in. "...Oh."_ _

__"Mmhmm." Sam nods. "I mean, full disclosure, he _did_ try to flirt with me at first. In an awkward, hyper-competitive way. But the second he found out you were still out there in the world?" Sam snaps his fingers. "It was like that. No one else existed."_ _

__Bucky leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, looking thoughtfully at the door that leads through to the dining room and the kitchen._ _

__"He's always been an idiot," he says eventually, something between nerves and anticipation swirling in his stomach. He taps his foot on the floor._ _

__"Yeah, I noticed that." Sam agrees with a smile. "You okay, man?"_ _

__Bucky nods, and swallows. "I'm fine. Just... Processing." He takes a breath. "I don't really know what to do about it."_ _

__Sam shrugs. "The good news is, you don't have to do anything. There's no pressure. I just thought you might wanna know."_ _

__"Thanks." Bucky says, even though this just throws his confusion into high gear._ _

__Steve comes back from the kitchen, thankfully, and he and Sam lapse back into friendly ribbing and chit chat. Bucky's surprised, but he doesn't find himself overwhelmed by the social element of the evening. Maybe because neither of them seem to expect him to participate, they just let him be._ _

__It's nice. Even if there's a lot swirling in his head now, listening to their conversation and letting it wash over him without overwhelming him is easy._ _

__Sam leaves after they split the bottle of wine he'd brought. Bucky and Steve say goodnight on the stairs, and Steve's got this smile... This genuinely pleased smile that makes Bucky think, for a wild and reckless moment, about following him. Not to do anything. Kiss his cheek, maybe. Or just look at him, and that smile, as long as Steve will let him._ _

__It's extremely inadvisable. He nods a curt goodnight and scurries to his room like a coward instead._ _

____

__** vi. ** _ _

____

__Something's shifted, and Steve isn't sure what it is. Isn't ready to name it, anyway, in case he's wrong. It's too soon and too fragile to look at too closely._ _

__But it's there. He's pretty sure it's there._ _

__When Bucky smiles at him and his eyes crinkle up. When they linger longer and longer on the stairs saying goodnight. When their shoulders brush sitting side by side and neither of them pulls away._ _

__It's a torturous combination of nerves and butterflies, apprehension and anticipation, sweet and painful by turn. And Steve still means it - if Bucky's never ready, if he decides he doesn't want that, it will be okay. Steve can be the friend Bucky needs. He can table his feelings and learn to move on._ _

__But he's starting to think he might not have to._ _

__"You been to Coney Island yet, since you've been back?" Bucky asks one weekend, when they're lounging around with the windows open. Not doing much of anything._ _

__Steve likes afternoons like this, but they're both feeling a little cooped up and antsy. Too much energy. Not enough to do with it just hanging around the house, but they've been careful not to go out together too much. Steve's too noticeable. And Bucky can't be noticed, not yet. They're still figuring out how to transition him into the public eye without creating an international incident._ _

__Steve rolls onto his side on the living room floor so he can prop himself up on an elbow and look at Bucky, stretched lazily out on the couch. "Wow, no, I haven't. I think I've been worried they changed it too much. They've changed so much, Buck."_ _

__"I know, pal, believe me."_ _

__"I didn't want to go there and not recognize it, you know? We loved that place. And I guess..." He plucks at the fibers on the rug and shrugs his shoulders. "I guess I kinda didn't wanna go without you."_ _

__Something in Bucky's face softens, and he sits up, shoulders square. "Well I'm here now." He points out, and reaches a hand down to Steve. "So let's go."_ _

__"What?" Steve laughs a little, but accepts the hand up without hesitating. "We can't."_ _

__"Why not?" Bucky stands, pulling Steve the rest of the way up with him._ _

__"Because..." He sputters. Bucky hasn't let go of his hand yet. "Because of the same reasons we're sitting around here, instead of... You know. Out somewhere, in the city."_ _

__"It's one afternoon. Just a few hours, really." Bucky's fingers flex around Steve's and he grins, a teasing challenge in his eyes. It makes Steve feel dizzy. "Come on, Stevie, what's the worst that can happen?"_ _

__The worst that can happen is... A lot. They could get recognized. Bucky could be captured, or arrested. They could run into a few Hydra agents on vacation, or something, and wind up in a fight._ _

__There are reasons, is the thing, that they _don't_ do this. Real, legitimate reasons._ _

__It's just hard for Steve to think about those reasons when Bucky's looking at him like that - he has _always_ been susceptible to that look - and holding his hand like it's normal. Like it's just something that they do._ _

__"Okay," he gives in, so easy it should be embarrassing. "Okay, yeah. Let's do it."_ _

__They put on ball caps and sunglasses and Bucky pulls a hoodie on to cover the arm, before they walk out the door._ _

__Coney Island is different and not different, like most of the city - the buildings might change, but the heartbeat doesn't. The Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel still stand, two points on a compass to help orient them in this new version of an old familiar place. There are carnival games and food vendors and people everywhere. People too busy to pay attention to them._ _

__Bucky nudges his arm and grins, and Steve can't help grinning back._ _

__"What first?" He asks._ _

__"What do you think?"_ _

__The Cyclone. It's always the Cyclone._ _

__They ride at the front of the coaster, and Steve's stomach swoops with the rise and fall of the little car. He can't remember the last time he'd done something like this. Something just for the fun of it, for the _joy_. Probably around the last time they'd been here together._ _

__They whoop and yell with the other passengers, and laugh, and Steve feels so light he could float away._ _

__\--_ _

__Hours later, they've ridden all the old rides and several of the new ones, and managed to eat their weight in candy floss and hotdogs. Bucky wins Steve something called a Pikachu at one of the shooting booths, winking slyly at Steve when he hits all the targets. Steve's got the bright yellow plushy tucked under his arm now, looking it up on his phone._ _

__"It's a cartoon," he tells Bucky, who presses close to lean over his shoulder and look at the small screen. "And a game. See, look, we can play it!"_ _

__He downloads the app and they walk along the beach, trading the phone back and forth to take turns catching Magicarps and Staryus. The little cartoon creatures are sometimes cute and sometimes weird. Steve likes them. He can already foresee that they're going to be doodled in the margins of his sketchbook now._ _

__The game is fun but it eats up his phone battery before too long. Steve pockets his phone and they lean together against the railing on the pier, watching the water and listening to the ambient rush of the crowd, thinning out finally now that it's getting later._ _

__Steve turns to Bucky, and he knows it's gotta be all over his face, how happy he feels. "Thank you."_ _

__Bucky shrugs, smiling a little himself and rubbing the back of his neck. "For what?"_ _

__"I don't know. Being here." Steve figures that's a start. "Bringing me here. I just... I dunno," he falters, because he doesn't know how to say anything else without saying _I love you, I love you, I love you_. "It's just a really good day, that's all. I, um. I needed that."_ _

__Bucky turns, leaning back against the railing with his arms stretched out along it. He looks at Steve... Looks at him like he's weighing something._ _

__"I thought you and Wilson were dating," he says after a second, making Steve's eyebrows fly up with the sudden change in topic._ _

__"What? I - no," he shakes his head and feels his cheeks going pink. It's too late to blame his flush on the sun. "I'm not. We're not. It's...not a thing that's happening."_ _

__Bucky laughs, probably at the face he's making, and shakes his head. "Yeah, I figured that out, thanks. You two just seem real close, and... He's a handsome guy."_ _

__"Yeah," Steve agrees automatically, because it's true enough and he's distracted by the way Bucky's still looking at him, "he is, but I - oh." His brain goes still and his stomach clenches. "Were you... I mean, if _you're_ interested in him, that would be ... Okay."_ _

__Bucky arches a brow. "It would?"_ _

__"Yuh-huh." Steve bobs his head in a nod, tripping over his own tongue in an attempt to handle this. "Of course. Because.. you know. You're my friend. And he's my friend. And I want you to be happy and if he would... I mean, I don't know if Sam's interested in guys, but, I could put in a good word or-"_ _

__"Steve." Cool metal fingers circle his wrist, grounding him. Steve takes a breath and looks up, meeting Bucky's eyes. "I'm not interested in Sam."_ _

__"Oh." Steve breathes. "Okay."_ _

__"Yeah." His thumb strokes over the pulse point of Steve's wrist, and Steve hopes his heartbeat isn't skipping too obviously. "I'm sorta spoken for, anyway," Bucky adds as his hand slips away._ _

__"You are?"_ _

__Bucky just looks at him for a second, and then smiles. "Come on," he pushes off from the railing and heads away from the beach, "let's go home."_ _

__\--_ _

__The ride home is quiet, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder on the train in companionable silence. Bucky has this... This air of _calm direction_ , like he knows what he's doing and he has a plan._ _

__Steve, on the other hand, is suddenly a nervous wreck. He's fidgety and antsy and doesn't know what to do with himself. He keeps twisting his fingers and shifting his weight until Bucky leans more solidly into him, and they've been doing this all his life so he knows, without Bucky having to say it out loud, what it means. _Calm down. Everything is going to be okay.__ _

__And it is. It is._ _

__They toe their shoes off in the entryway, once they get inside, and discard their makeshift disguises. Bucky leads the way up the stairs and they both stop on the second floor landing in unspoken agreement, like they do every night. Steve doesn't know why it suddenly feels different._ _

__Except that he does._ _

__"I, um." He's blushing, _Jesus_. He rubs at the back of his neck, self-conscious and awkward. "I had a really good time today, Buck."_ _

__Bucky smiles at him, fond and soft. "Me, too. We oughtta do it again sometime soon."_ _

__"Definitely." Steve nods, over eager, and God, he's embarrassing himself. "Okay, goodnight!" He says, too quick and too loud, and turns to go but Bucky stops him, laughing and catching him by the sleeve to pull him back around._ _

__"Where are you going?"_ _

__"Um." Steve makes a vague, flustered motion. "To bed?"_ _

__"Just... Just wait a second."_ _

__So Steve stills, waits, breath caught in his chest until Bucky steps closer and puts one hand on his waist, and gently cups his cheek with the other._ _

__Steve wants this. He wants this _so much_ and it scares the crap out of him._ _

__"You don't have to," he finds himself whispering, even though there's no one around to overhear. He needs Bucky to know that, though. Needs to give him one last out._ _

__Bucky doesn't take it._ _

__"I know," he murmurs, making Steve's heart pound, "but I want to." He looks up, like he's asking for permission, and Steve would laugh if he didn't feel like he's about to vibrate out of his skin._ _

__He nods, and swallows. "Okay."_ _

__It's soft and careful, the way Bucky kisses him. Like this is a delicate thing, like _Steve_ might be delicate. Maybe he is. His heart feels like it's encased in glass and it's cracking open, shattering and letting the light in for the first time in ages. A knot of something tangled, grief and guilt and battered, buried hope, loosens inside him._ _

__"Bucky..." He whispers, tipping their foreheads together and reaching up to tentatively touch his face._ _

__"I know." Bucky's voice is soft. He nudges their noses together and kisses Steve again, chaste and sweet at the corner of his mouth. "I know, sweetheart. C'mere." He wraps an arm around Steve's shoulders and Steve buries his face in Bucky's neck and just breathes. "You were ready to rip your heart out over me, huh?"_ _

__"A million times," Steve answers immediately, voice rough, and feels Bucky’s lips press a kiss into his hair._ _

__"One of these days I'm gonna teach you some self preservation," Bucky tells him, but he sounds resigned. He knows there's not a chance in hell that's gonna happen._ _

__And Steve, instead of answering, just kisses him again, and lets Bucky pull him back into his bedroom._ _

__\--_ _

__Steve wakes up the next morning full of determination and a plan._ _

__He skips his morning run and heads straight for the Tower, instead. Tony, who seems to almost never sleep, is already up and in his lab, drinking coffee straight out of the pot._ _

__"Mornin', Cap," he waves a screwdriver at Steve, and he's so wired. How is he always so wired? Steve is a super soldier with an almost unrelenting supply of energy, but looking at Tony Stark makes him _tired_. "You're looking particularly full of patriotic vigor today. What can I do you for?"_ _

__"I need your help." Steve sets a worn manilla folder on Tony's work table, Cyrillic letters across the front. Bucky's file. "I um, I found him. Or I guess he kind of found me."_ _

__Tony, for once, appears speechless. He blinks up at Steve in surprise._ _

__It doesn't last long, of course. "I'm guessing by the fact that all of your internal organs appear to still be internal that he's... Slightly less cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs than he was the last time you ran into each other."_ _

__"He remembers." Steve nods, face pinching as Tony flips open the cover to reveal that picture of Bucky in cryo. Bucky hollowed out, so they could put whatever they want in there in his place. He doesn't think he will ever be able to look at that picture without flinching. "Not everything, but he remembers more everyday." Tony opens his mouth but Steve can't. The back and forth banter, normally he's up for it._ _

__But this is important, and there are things in that file that Tony's not going to be happy about. Things Steve should tell him but doesn't know how, but he knows information speaks better to Tony than any emotional appeal. So, "I just... I just need you to read it, okay? Then we'll talk. I'll be upstairs."_ _

__\--_ _

__"He killed my parents." Tony sits across from Steve, about an hour later, and tosses the file onto the glass coffee table._ _

__Steve stares at the floor. "I know."_ _

__"He killed _JFK_."_ _

__"I know." He takes a deep breath, and steels himself to look up and meet Tony's eyes, who looks... drawn. Like he's aged, in the past hour. "It wasn't his fault."_ _

__"I know." Tony stretches out on the sofa and covers his face with his hand. "I saw what they did. It would be a lot easier for me if I could hate the guy."_ _

__"I'm sorry. Tony, I'm sorry."_ _

__"It's okay." Tony sighs, and waves his hand. "I mean it's not, but... It's what it is. What do you want to do?"_ _

__Steve shrugs, and runs a hand through his hair. "Clear his name?"_ _

__"Release that, and you will."_ _

__"I can't do that." Steve shakes his head. "Tony, you know I can't do that. There are things in there... It doesn't matter what they did to him. Some people will still see it as unforgivable."_ _

__"A redacted version, then." Tony's foot taps out a rhythm on the arm of the couch. "We can get Romanoff to consult. Clean it up just enough to get him an official pardon and then..." He shrugs. "I don't know. Press conference?"_ _

__Steve grimaces. "I don't think he'd particularly appreciate that."_ _

__"Maybe he wouldn't have to speak," Tony offers. "You're his friend. Everyone knows that. It's in all the books, it's in the museums. You can speak for him."_ _

__"Um." Steve can feel his cheeks turn pink. "More than his friend, actually."_ _

__Tony turns to look at him, brows slightly raised. "Huh. They didn't teach us _that_ in school. And Dad never mentioned it."_ _

__"Well, he wouldn't have," Steve shrugged, "on account of nobody knew, back then. It was the 40's, Tony. And anyway, we weren't together most of the war. Bucky thought... Doesn't matter, just, he was trying to protect me. He was always trying to protect me."_ _

__"A futile pursuit," Tony snorts._ _

__"Yeah. Well. I think we both know things are different now." He hopes. Steve wants them to be different._ _

__"Okay then. As his.... Partner?" Tony looks to Steve for confirmation, who shrugs and nods. It's close enough. "As his partner, you're definitely able to act as his publicity proxy. Pepper'll help with that part - she's better at that stuff than anyone else I know. We'll have a plan of attack ready, before we take it to official channels. And I can pull some strings, grease the wheels of justice, etc. etc.... Don't worry, Cap. We'll figure this out."_ _

__\--_ _

__Which is how, a couple weeks later, Steve finds himself in a meeting with several Avengers and the extremely blustery Thaddeus Ross._ _

__Not exactly Steve's favorite government liason, if he's being honest._ _

__They secured an official pardon a few days ago. Steve had thought that'd be the hardest part of the battle, but now they're going over what to say to the press and honestly this is worse. Ross and Tony have been arguing for two hours now. It's giving Steve a stress headache._ _

___They're gonna want to hang onto you._ Steve can hear the words, echoing in his head from so long ago._ _

__"It doesn't matter how much brainwashing Barnes went through. Captain America is more than a man - he's more than a title. He's a symbol of the American ideal."_ _

__"So, straight and white?" Tony shoots back. "What is this, 1953?"_ _

__"Oh, don't give me that bullshit." Ross scoffs._ _

___They're gonna want you to stay public._ _ _

__"Bottom line," Ross taps his finger on the conference tabletop. "The American public isn't going to accept this. Captain America cannot be _romantically entangled_ with the goddamn Winter Soldier!"_ _

___They're not gonna want some lousy guy like me hanging around in the background._ _ _

__Steve feels so, so tired._ _

__"Then I quit."_ _

__The room goes dead silent. Steve looks up, as what he's just said sinks in. Pressure fills his lungs, like he can't bring in enough air, and everyone around the table looks just as shocked to hear those words as he is._ _

__But he means it. Oh God, he means it._ _

__"Excuse me?"_ _

__"I quit." Steve meets Ross's eyes with a strange, dizzying calm. "The shield, the symbol, you can have it. I don't want it anymore."_ _

__"You can't be serious," Ross says, after an elongated pause._ _

__"But I am." He is. He pushes back from the table. "Tony, you've got this, right?"_ _

__Tony nods, stunned and silent but still, thankfully, backing Steve's play._ _

__"Okay." Steve's hand settles on top of his chair and he squeezes, hesitating. Giving him one last second for regret to pull him down... But it doesn't. "Okay. I'll do the press conference. I'll say whatever I need to. And then you can let me know where I can turn the shield in." He doesn't give Ross a chance to respond before he leaves._ _

__\--_ _

__"Hey." Bucky's standing at the sink, washing dishes, but he looks up when Steve walks in. "How'd everything-"_ _

__Steve cuts him off, taking Bucky's face in his hands and kissing him._ _

__"Mmph," Bucky makes a surprised sound against his lips and soapy hands grip Steve's shoulders. "What-?"_ _

__"I quit my job today." Steve says in a rush, running the words together._ _

__Bucky stares at him. "You _what_?"_ _

__"I quit my job," he repeats, and takes a deep breath. "I'm not Captain America anymore."_ _

__"Sweetheart..." Bucky's thumbs brush over Steve's cheeks and it's only then that Steve realizes there are tears streaming from his eyes._ _

__"I'm crying," he sniffs, and his brow pinches. "Why am I crying?"_ _

__"Because, you idiot, you _quit your job_ ," Bucky points out patiently. "Come on." He cuts the water off in the sink and pulls Steve out to the living room, pulling him down on the couch. He opens his arms and Steve falls into them, and hides his face in Bucky's chest._ _

__"It's okay," Bucky murmurs, rubbing his back. "It's okay."_ _

__And it is. Or it will be. Steve knows that, even if right now it feels a little bit like the world is ending._ _

__"You don't have to do this for me," Bucky tells him eventually, petting Steve's hair. "You know that, right?"_ _

__Steve pulls in a deep, slow breath. "I know," he says, and his voice is small but solid. This is the truth. "I didn't do it for you. I did it for me. I think that... I haven't wanted this for a long time."_ _

__"Then I'm proud of you." Bucky smiles, and tips Steve's chin up with a finger and presses a kiss to his lips. "What are you gonna do now?"_ _

__"I don't know." Steve admits, and it's almost... Freeing, to not have a direction to go in. He rests his head on Bucky's shoulder. "Travel, maybe? Peggy's been telling me for years that I need a break."_ _

__"She's always been a sharp woman." He can hear the smirk in Bucky's voice. "You should'a listened to her sooner."_ _

__"I know. But then I wouldn't have found you again."_ _

__Bucky rolls his eyes. "Sure you would have. Ain't you been saying it for years?" He reminds Steve. "You'll always find me. We’ll face this the same way we’ve faced everything else.”  
“Together?” Steve looks up at him, and Bucky smiles._ _

__“Together,” he agrees._ _

__**-The End-** _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my sprawling, angsty, fluffy story. Let me know what you think in the comments!


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